A silver plastic bowl.
Full of glasses crusted with dried liquid.
From an end of office, office party.
White units, two sinks and an oven.
Perched in the glassy eaves of a city monolith.
A kitchen without love.
In the city of Judge Dredd.
The streets are dark.
Light has no room.
Where the high rise loom.
Even in blazing sunlight.
Strange outdoor, enclosed spaces.
And the sound of drilling.
Flowing with living streams.
Smart streams of human beings.
Her toned calves shone in black tights.
Tucked neat as a cat beneath her.
His red socked attempt at rebellion.
Snuck out from under his trousers.
The two sat a million miles apart in a tiny green patch between an old church and a bank.
Her high heels stuffed in a bag as she pounds the pavement in trainers.
His red, computer-shot eyes rubbed by the phone free hand.
The two ran from do to important do.
The washing up bowl abandoned by a bankrupt office.
The workers sent home, sacked by email.
Leaving just the glasses.